Something To Hide
by Orange-Peel-Pixie
Summary: Reasons why I wrote this inside. Dougie is feeling down and turns to an old habit. Warning: Contains descriptions of self-harm.
1. Chapter 1

_**I wrote this story for Self Injury Awareness Day (SIAD), which is on March 1st (though I'm uploading it early because I'm going to be away then). This is a subject that is pretty close to me for a number of reasons that I won't go into here, but I like to raise awareness where I can. Feel free to message me if you're particularly interested in the reasons behind this, or if you want any more info on SIAD.**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people that I have borrowed for this story! I also do not own the opening quotation.**

**Warning: Fairly graphic descriptions of self-harm, and a little bit of swearing.**

**I know "Depressed Dougie" has become somewhat clichéd of late. This wasn't meant to be a Dougie story when it started out, but he seemed to fit the character so much better than any of the others. I've tried to write it in a way that will still be interesting to read regardless! **

**Please read and leave a review, I'd really love to know what people think of this story.**

* * *

><p>"<em>Scar tissue has no character. It's not like skin. It doesn't show age or illness or pallor or tan. It has no pores, no hair, no wrinkles. It's like a slipcover. It shields and disguises what's beneath. That's why we grow it; we have something to hide." – Susanna Kaysen (Girl, Interrupted)<em>

Dougie sat awake in bed, unable to sleep through everything that was racing inside his mind. He missed his own bed, his real bed, at home. He missed so much about home. He missed his group of friends at school, he missed his little sister, however annoying she may be, and, as uncool as it made him feel to admit, he missed his mum. He missed the safety of knowing that nothing he did really mattered, that he had time to mess around and be young. It had been two months since he'd lived at home, and still he missed it every night. Not that what he had here wasn't fantastic, because it was. Three new friends, a house in London living with said friends, no adults, no school, and the prospect of a future he'd always dreamed of. But it had happened fast, so fast. He'd barely spoken to most of his friends back home since he'd joined the band, and they all seemed to be getting on without him just fine. It was like everyone had moved on and forgotten him, when in actuality, it was him who had done the moving away.

Everyone else in the house, his bandmates, seemed to have bonded far quicker with each other than they had done with Dougie. Tom and Danny had known each other for a while already, and Harry was confident and charismatic enough to get along great with anyone the second they met him, leaving Dougie the quiet, shy outsider of the group. In a way, Dougie felt like this was not real life, not his real life at least, that this was all some elaborate movie-set joke on him, and that one day he'd find out none of this was real, or the band would find someone more suited to replace him, and that he would have to go back to how his life used to be. It was like the fear of loosing it made it too hard to truly live in the moment, to enjoy this strange turn his life had taken.

It felt like he had no one to turn to when he felt down on nights like these. He was nowhere near close enough to his old friends to call them up at 3am anymore, nor was he close enough to his bandmates yet to wake them up to talk to them, he wouldn't even know what to say. He could call his mum, but as far as she knew, everything was going brilliantly with the band, and it was, apart from when he got himself wrapped up in his own negativity. No, he couldn't call her, he didn't want to worry her into making him move back home, because as much as he missed home, this was his chance at doing something he had always wanted to do, and he didn't know if he would get another. So he turned to what he always turned to when he was down, an old habit he had picked up a few years ago, a messy, addictive, time consuming habit that Dougie had thought he was over until a few weeks before he joined the band when it had resurfaced. He knew he shouldn't, he knew it wasn't a good way of dealing with things, he heard every rational part of his brain screaming at him not to do it, and still before long it had all started again.

Dougie reached over to the bedside cabinet, opening the top drawer, pulling out a small wooden box. He flipped the lip open, revealing an array of thin, metal razor blades, some perfectly straight and shiny, others bloodstained and bent in the middle, his code for knowing which had been used without having to throw any away, for fear of someone finding it in the bin. He took out a fresh blade, and put it carefully in the pocket of his hoodie, before taking out a small bundle of gauze and medical tape which he also placed in his pocket. He picked up his mobile phone to use the light to guide himself to the bathroom, not wanting to turn any lights on, not wanting to wake any of his housemates up. He made his way onto the landing, past the staircase leading down to the kitchen and living room, and the one leading up to Tom's room, past Harry's bedroom door, and into the bathroom, closing the door and switching the light on.

Slowly and methodically, Dougie took the blade out of his hoodie pocket, placing in on the ledge above the sink, staring at his regretful eyes looking back at him through the water-marked mirror. He took out the gauze and the tape, placing them next to the blade, before slipping off his hoodie. Dougie stared at his arm, lined in marks and wounds in different stages of healing, from old, white scars, to fresh, scabby cuts. He sighed, realising he was fast running out of free space on his forearm this time around. It hadn't always been like this. Before a few months ago, before he'd started again, there had been months where he hadn't even so much as thought about hurting himself. Having started when he was thirteen, he had been dealing with this for a couple of years, and had learned from experience how to hide it. Everything from withstanding the heat of wearing long sleeves in summer, to a reliance on wristbands and other bracelets passed off as fashion. And, of course, there was the main rule, the one that he had not stuck to this time around. No injuries in obvious areas, meaning he usually steered clear of his forearms, opting instead for his shoulders and legs, though nowhere felt quite the same, nothing had quite the same value to Dougie as an injury on his forearm. When he had started back up, he had allowed himself to cut his forearms, something he had not done in over a year, thinking it would just be a one time thing, one last time. Of course it wasn't one last time, it never was.

Dougie tugged up the sleeve of his t-shirt, revealing his bony shoulder, also filled with old white scars. Just how many scars he had acquired over the course of the couple of years astounded Dougie when he saw them. Dougie picked up the razor and perched on the edge of the bath, bringing it to his left bicep, or at least, the place his bicep would have been, had he any muscle mass to speak of. He stared at the razor against his skin for a second, inhaling deeply, before pressing the blade down as hard as he could, dragging in across the skin in a forwards motion, exhaling sharply. He felt the familiar pinch of the sharp edge puncturing his skin, but little aside from that in terms of pain. He stared at his arm, seeing his flesh tear open. It was deep, deeper than Dougie had expected, deeper than he had cut in a long time. He took the razor away from his skin to assess the damage, cursing himself for going so deep when he knew he'd have to use his arm to play bass in the morning. It always hurt more the next morning.

The cut gaped open, blood only just beginning to show through the Rice Krispie-like layer of dull, yellow-grey fat he had hit. He hadn't meant to do that. It was just meant to be a little cut, enough to feel everything he had come to attach to the action, but shallow enough to wrap up in a bit of gauze and go to bed after. He knew he should stop, he knew this would be enough to deal with now, but one cut was never enough. He put the razor to his skin again, drawing it along a couple of times in quick succession, blood forming droplets almost immediately on those. Dougie rested the blade down on the ledge, grabbing a mound of tissue to hold to his bleeding arm, trying not to let any blood drip onto the white tiled floor. He sat on the edge of the bath, applying pressure to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

Staring at what he had done, Dougie felt the familiar feeling of regret and disgust coming into light, as that always did, and as he always forgot about until they came back around. Why did he still have to resort to this? It was stupid, childish, a waste of time and energy. But then again, wasn't everything? There was no point to anything, really, and he was tired, so tired, always, but could never sleep. Lifting the tissue, Dougie checked on the cut, which showed no signs of stopping bleeding anytime soon. He yawned, stretching out his back, cutting always made him sleepy, too tired to deal with the hassle of having a wound to treat afterwards. It could probably wait until the morning, Dougie thought, risking bleeding through onto his clothes and bed sheets. He took a piece of gauze, and doubled it over to increase the thickness, placing it over the cuts. Blood seeped through almost instantly, though Dougie left it in place, layering tape over the dressing to create a barrier which blood could not get through as easily. He pulled his t-shirt sleeve back down, and placed his hoodie back on, not wanting to see any sigh of what he had done to himself.

The soaked through bandage was uncomfortable on Dougie's arm, his drying blood cold against his skin, the tape slightly too tight, restricting his arm movement. The wound's dressing, in fact, for the time being, felt more unpleasant than the actual wound, though that would set in tomorrow, after the pain numbing adrenalin had faded away. It was all part of the routine, the safety net of familiarity that surrounded the act. He couldn't keep doing this, he'd have to stop soon, this couldn't go on forever. Dougie was sure his bandmates would get suspicious eventually, if he ever stopped keeping them at arms length long enough for them to notice. It seemed so obvious to Dougie, he constantly scanned other people arms for possible scars, but then again, it was all so normalised to him, having been part of his life for so long, he was more attuned than most would, or should, be. Dougie gathered up the used blade and remaining gauze, putting them back in his pocket, flushing the bloodied tissue down the toilet, making sure every trace of his injuries were gone from the bathroom. He picked up his mobile phone, ready to go back to bed and try to sleep.

As he opened the bathroom door, expecting to need the light from his phone to guide him back to his bedroom, Dougie felt his eyes blinded by the harsh light of the hallway. Who else was up? Dougie considered going back into the bathroom, or running all the way to his bedroom, not wanting to bump into anyone. He was in no fit state to talk, not even for late night hallway pleasantries. He stood in the doorway for a second, frozen in time, panic gripping his body, forcing him to remain static.

"Dougie? Are you not asleep yet? We've got a really early start for the studio tomorrow," Tom said, coming up the stairs from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand.

Dougie opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find any words to say, instead just nodding and hoping Tom didn't hear his mumbled stutters of shock. This wasn't right, he wasn't supposed to see anyone now, not until he'd slept. Not until he'd had time to forget about what he'd just done, until the pictures of split skin pouring blood weren't so fresh in his mind. He bowed his head, and went to walk back to bed, hoping he could pass his rudeness off as him being half asleep come morning time. Dougie began to walk, flinching as he felt Tom's hand on his left arm, stopping dead in his tracks. Fuck. How the hell did Tom know? Did Tom know? Dougie felt his heart racing halfway down his stomach, his chest tightening his airwaves. This wasn't happening, this wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening.

"What happened to your arm? You're bleeding," Tom said, his voice thick with concern.

Dougie looked down, seeing that Tom was indeed correct, blood seeping through the light grey sleeve of his hoodie. He cursed himself for not having tended to the wound better, for not having worn a black hoodie on which the blood wouldn't have shown, for not adhering to his own rules about cutting in less obvious places. What the hell was he going to say? His mouth was dry, his palms drenched in sweat, his body tense and shaking.

"Oh, it, uh, it's nothing," Dougie spluttered, trying to pull his arm back from Tom's hands, now grasped around his shoulder.

"It doesn't look like nothing, Dougie. Here, let me have a look, I've got some plasters and stuff in the bathroom upstairs," Tom pressed, trying to take down the sleeve of Dougie's blood-stained hoodie.

Dougie suppressed a slight smirk, his mind twisting Tom's attempts to help, intertwining them with dark humour. A side effect of years of self inflicted injuries was the ability to care for said injuries as second nature, a plethora of learned medical knowledge. Dougie was fully aware of the healing time required for cuts of different sizes in different places on his body. He knew almost exactly the amount of time they would take to stop bleeding, when to change the dressings, what sort of wound required what treatment, and how to prevent them from getting infected. Right now, for example, he knew that the deepest of the cuts required some sort of help to stay shut, the help of steri-strips, or, in the unlikely event he did not have any to hand, a strip of the tape used to hold the sodden gauze in place. Though he had become somewhat desensitised to the severity of his injuries, Dougie knew how they would look to someone not so accustomed to them. For Tom's sake as much as his own, Dougie could not risk letting him see them.

"No, really it's fine," Dougie said, sounding more defensive than he had intended to, attempting to tug his arm back from Tom, wincing slightly as a jolt of pain hit the cuts as he attempted to move his arm.

Tom saw the younger boy flinch, taking it was warning more so than anything that something was wrong, and more determined to find out what Dougie was trying so hard to keep him from seeing. He knew Dougie didn't like asking for help, that he wanted to prove that he could look after himself, and that was fine, most of the time. Whatever had happened, Dougie was hurt, or why else would the sleeve of his sweatshirt be soaked with still-wet blood stains? Couldn't Dougie put aside this manly persona and pride for the sake of a plaster?

Before Dougie had a chance to react, Tom grabbed a hold of the top of Dougie's unzipped hoodie, "Dougie, stop being silly, what happened?" Tom asked, getting slightly fed up with Dougie's resistance. When they had all moved in together, just a few short months ago, Dougie's mother had taken Tom aside, and made him promise to watch out for Dougie, to look after her son. He had given his word that he would make sure Dougie was okay… what if whatever had happened to Dougie's arm was a more serious than Tom thought? Not that he knew what he thought, really. What sort of accident could wound the top of an arm through a permanently-attached hoodie? No, he had to know what was going on here, why Dougie was acting so suspiciously, why he was so nervous and jumpy tonight.

"I said it's nothing!" Dougie replied, raising his voice ever so slightly, though still not much above a loud whisper. He gave his arm a final tug to retrieve it and go back to bed. Tom's grip on his hoodie tightened. Dougie pulled his arm back, though not before Tom had pulled the sleeve down to Dougie's elbow, revealing Dougie's injuries and scars, from the old, almost to faint to see, to the very new, the blood soaked gauze in full view. Dougie heard Tom inhale a sharp burst of air at the sight, as he felt his heart racing faster than he had ever felt it before. He grabbed onto the top of his hoodie, pulling it up over his arm once again, but it was too late, for he could not make Tom un-see what had already been seen.

"Dougie…" Tom sighed, his eyes wide and mouth agape, "What have you done to yourself?"

Dougie could not think of a response. He didn't want to respond, he wanted to go to bed, to forget this late night hallway meeting ever happened. He didn't want to have to explain himself to Tom. He didn't want to have to let Tom in on his secret. It was his, the one thing in the world that was solely his. Tom would fain concern, try and make him stop, force him to stop. What give him ultimatums about staying in the band? Dougie felt his world crashing down around him, like sandcastles being washed away by the tide. It only takes a moment for something to be destroyed.

So he ran. Pushing past a still-staring Tom, Dougie ran down the hallway and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him, no longer thinking, or caring, about who else he might wake up. He ran to his bed and lied down, tears of confused anger springing to his eyes, sniffling into the pillows into which he had buried his head. He lay there, shaking, crying, too much spinning through his head to make sense of anything. He wanted to cut again, it would help bring him clarity, help him to focus, rid him of the adrenalin surging through his veins, making him restless, and, once more, unlikely to get to sleep any time soon. But he couldn't cut again, could he? Granted, he hadn't known Tom particularly long, but if Dougie's knowledge of him was anything to go by, Tom wouldn't stand for Dougie running off without so much as an explanation. As if on cue, Dougie heard a tapping on his bedroom door.

"Go away," He mumbled into the bed sheets, well aware of quite how much he was acting like a child, but not caring.

Tom pushed the door open, ignoring Dougie's request, revealing the pitiful sight within the room of Dougie crying into his bed. Tom sighed, shaking his head. He didn't want Dougie to feel like this, he didn't want to have been the one to make Dougie feel like this. He wanted to make everything better, it was his job to make everything better, his responsibility. But what could he do? What could he possibly say to this crying wreck of Dougie?

"Look, Dougie," Tom began, softly, walking over towards the bed, "I get that you don't want to talk to me about this right now, and that's fine, but when you calm down, we're going to need to discuss this. I can't know what you're doing to yourself and let you just carry on as if I hadn't seen. Now, I don't understand what would make you want to hurt yourself, but I know you're not the first person to have ever done this, you know, and you definitely won't be the last. You should really try and get some sleep though. When you're ready to talk about this, we can, anytime you're ready, come get me. You can get through this, Dougie, this doesn't have to define you."

When Dougie did not respond, Tom made his way over to the bed, Dougie's sniffling letting Tom know that Dougie was still awake, and therefore probably heard his speech. Tom placed a fresh bandage from his medicine cabinet upstairs on Dougie's bedside table, his feeble attempt at a peace offering. In a way, Tom was relieved that Dougie didn't want to talk tonight, it gave him time to process what he had seen, to work out what he should do. He needed time to wrap his head around what he had found out. He reached out to touch Dougie's shoulder, in an attempt to comfort him, to let him know he was there for him. Dougie jerked slightly at the contact, Tom realising it was not having the intended effect. He sighed again and went to leave the room.

"Goodnight, Dougie," Tom said, as he approached the doorway.

"W-w-w-wait," Dougie said, through his tears, not quite sure why he was saying anything. Something Tom said resonated through his mind. This didn't have to define him. He could stop; this didn't have to last forever. Maybe the first step to stopping was making it through the night without cutting again, something that Dougie, at this moment in time, doubted his ability to do on his own.

"Yeah?" Tom asked, stopping in his tracks.

"C-c-c-could you stay w-w-w-with me for a b-b-b-bit, please?" Dougie asked looking up from his pillow, his eyes rubbed red and glistening moisture.

"Yeah, of course," Tom replied, making his way over to the bed and perching on the edge. He put his arm around Dougie's shoulders, and before he knew it, Dougie head was against his chest, sobbing through the fabric of Tom's t-shirt, "It's okay, it'll be okay, Dougs,"

* * *

><p>Dougie didn't know it yet, but that was the day everything started to change, the day everything started to fall into place. Dougie had always though that the day when someone finally found out his secret would be unbearable, but instead, it had set him up in good stead for recovery. Six years on, he looked back on those times through different eyes, barely being able to comprehend how his younger self had felt, a collection of fading scars his only traces that he had indeed once felt that way. From that day on, Dougie let himself become closer to his bandmates, stopped pushing them away, until they fast became his three best friends, his family. Danny and Harry found out too, eventually, but it was Tom who really helped him through, stayed up with Dougie through the long and difficult nights, taking his mind off of things, being there for him to talk to when he drifted to dark places. That night was not, of course, the last night Dougie cut himself. That would come later, years later in fact, but it would come. It was hard, as all addictions are, but in time this story would come to a close.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Please review to let me know what you think! This was just meant to be a one-shot, but I don't like ending stories particularly, so I might carry it on, so please let me know if you think I should do that, or just leave it as it is.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! Thank-you so much to everyone who read/reviewed/favourited this story! Based on the reviews I got, I've decided to carry this on into a longer story, though I don't know what's going to happen in it, so if you guys have any suggestions or anything that you'd like to see happen, please let me know! Do you want it to be a story built around the self-harm thing? Or do you have any ideas for other bits of plot? Please review to let me know what you think of this chapter, I hope you all like it!**

* * *

><p>That night, Tom sat in Dougie's bed, awake, after Dougie had eventually cried himself to sleep. Tom had tried to sleep, but it was too hard with so much going on his mind, and in the unfamiliar surrounding, not wanting to leave Dougie for fear of what he might do if he woke up. Tom wondered if he should call Dougie's mother. Did she know what Dougie was doing? Was it his place to tell her? Surely she had a right to know, Dougie was only fifteen, he was still just a child, wasn't he? But she had been worried enough about Dougie moving away from home, she didn't need this now too, especially seeing as there would be nothing she could do that Tom or the other's couldn't; Dougie wasn't even technically in her care anymore. Dougie must have been doing this for a while, Tom thought, thinking back to what Dougie's arm had looked like in the brief amount of time he had seen it uncovered. If it was something he had under control, even vaguely, then maybe there would be no need to bother his mother if Dougie didn't want her to know.<p>

The electronic screams of Dougie's alarm clock pierced the room, making Tom jump, pulling him out of his thoughts. He left the alarm clock going for a second until he saw Dougie stirring under the covers, making sure he was awake so that Tom would not have to have the unnecessarily awkward job of waking him up. Dougie peeked his head out from under the covers, scrunching his eyes up at the light and the noise, flailing his arm around until it landed on the alarm clock, ending the racket emitting from it. He rolled over in the bed, about to stick his head back under the covers in the hope on another five minutes sleep, seeing Tom sat on his bed as he did so. Stopping in his tracks, Dougie's eyes opened wide, fear and embarrassment gripping him as the events of the night before unfolded in his mind, his secret no longer his, worrying about what, if anything, he should say.

"Sorry, I, um, you fell asleep while I was in here last night, didn't want to wake you by leaving," Tom said by way of explanation, seeing Dougie growing uncomfortable with his presence.

Dougie nodded slightly, lifting the covers away from his body and going to stand up, wincing as he bent his left arm. He looked down at the sleeve of his hoodie, congealed with dried blood, sticking to his skin and the bandage underneath. He ran his right hand inside the sleeve, trying to prize apart the fabric from the wound and bloodied dressing. It hurt. The whole area around the wound ached, his skin tender and bruised from the previous night's trauma. The wound itself stung, but it was nothing Dougie wasn't used to; after years of waking up with new injuries, the pain had stopped being so noticeable, just another part of the process. The pain was almost a side-effect of cutting, so removed from the reasons behind it. Not that those reasons were abundantly clear to even Dougie anymore, these days it was more just giving in to urges, scratching that deep itch that only self-harm could reach. He pulled his hand out from under the sleeve, sighing as he saw he had caused the wound to open up again, fresh blood wet on his hand. He hated all the hassle it caused, all the aftercare it created the next day that he never thought about in the moment. Dougie went to remove his hoodie and begin on cleaning the injuries up, before remembering Tom was still sitting on his bed.

"Uh, can you go? I, uh, I have to bandage this, and, I, uh, I don't want you to see," Dougie said, keeping his eyes fixed to the floor and feeling himself blushing. It felt wrong having someone, anyone, particularly someone who Dougie didn't know all that well yet, in such an early stage of their potential friendship, knowing what he was doing. It was private, it wasn't for anyone but himself to know the ins and outs of it all.

"I don't mind seeing," Tom replied, misinterpreting Dougie's coyness.

"No, but I mind," Dougie clarified, his voice film and final, so strong and out of character that it shocked Tom slightly.

Tom nodded, pushing himself up from the bed, "Oh, right, of course. I have to go get ready anyway. We've got to leave in about half an hour, alright?"

Dougie nodded, mumbling, waiting for Tom to leave so that he could fix the cuts up enough for the day, The smaller ones would be fine, but it was that first one, the deeper one, the one that was seemingly still bleeding that he needed to get a better look at.

"And Dougie?" Tom said, from the doorway, "We're going to talk about everything this afternoon, okay? I know you don't want to, but we have to,"

Again Dougie nodded, rubbing his eyes with his hand. Why did they have to talk about it? What was there to discuss? Dougie cut himself, he had been doing so for years, nothing was going to change that now. Truth be told, Dougie had little to no intention of stopping anytime soon, when he really thought about it. He knew it wouldn't be a habit he turned to forever, but for the time being, it helped him through the day, it helped him to feel better, to externalise what he couldn't talk about. Why mess that up by quitting? He was careful, it was manageable, accidents like last night, things like cutting a bit too deep, hardly ever happened any more, he was too well practiced with the precision amounts of pressure required. What if Tom tried to force him to quit? The idea was terrifying, the thought of not being allowed his one tiny vice filled him with dread. He thought back to a few months ago, to his period of lucidity, the few months during which he didn't cut. Though it wasn't long ago, it seemed like a lifetime had passed, so much had changed. Dougie could hardly remember how he thought for felt back then, how'd he'd managed to go so long without giving into the urges. Had he not had the urges then? That seemed impossible, and yet the alternative, the urges being present and Dougie somehow being strong enough not to act on them, seemed even more unlikely. It worried him that he couldn't remember, like his body and mind were so completely removed from then now, almost like he wasn't even the same person anymore.

Opening his bedside drawer, Dougie took out his medical supplies, bandages, tissues, gauze and tape, and sat on the edge of the bed, taking the hoodie off. Usually, he would have gone to the bathroom to do this, but too much of his privacy had been snatched from him to risk it. He folded the hoodie over, placing it on the bed, making sure the blood didn't touch the sheets, trying to keep the mess to a minimum. Inhaling deeply, Dougie pulled up the t-shirt sleeve, the soaked-through bandage practically falling off with it. Dougie balled up some tissue, and pressed it to the wound, not really wanting to look at them. It was weird, in the act of cutting, he could have stared at the injuries for hours, but the next morning, when they were not so fresh, when he had had a chance to think things over, seeing exactly what he had done to himself always made Dougie feel a little bit queasy. When the bleeding had lessened, Dougie took a look at the cuts. The shallower ones were fine, blood coagulating, beginning to scab over slightly, though, as Dougie had suspected, the deeper one would need some attention. The edges of the cut were still gaping wide open, a good centimetre in width, blood coming out in a controlled yet steady stream. He reached for the beside table drawer, pulling out a packet of steri-strips, opening it and peeling off one of the sticky-backed pieces of thin, translucent plastic. He held it, stuck onto his pinkie finger, as he pinched the edges of the gaping cut together until they met, blood droplets squeezing out of the top as he placed the steri-strip over, sealing the wound together for the time being.

Though he knew his aftercare wasn't the best, that it probably wasn't clean enough, that he should let it stop bleeding first, and that the very fact that it was still bleeding the next morning was possibly something to be concerned about, Dougie couldn't really find it within himself to care too much. He had done worse, and treated it the same way, and everything had healed up fine in the past. Had it been an accidental injury, he would probably have take more care with it, but this was how Dougie treated for his self-inflicted ones, this was part of the routine. There was something about injuries, however severe, done to oneself, which made them fundamentally different from anything accidental, something Dougie didn't like to spend too much time dwelling on. He covered the newly closed wound with a fresh piece of gauze, taping the sides down securely, hoping it would last the day.

It was stupid of him to have cut on his arm of all places, in retrospect, Dougie thought, when he would have to be able to move it today, They had a studio session booked, recording for their upcoming album. Dougie hoped that playing his bass would not cause the wound to open once again. Not that there was anything that could be done about that now. Dougie sighed, standing up and making his way over to his wardrobe, pulling out a pair of three-quarter length, light blue denim shorts, and a black t-shirt, dark coloured just in case the wound did re-open, to hide any blood that could seep through. He got dressed without showering, he couldn't be bothered with that today, and besides, he would have to keep the fresh cut dry in the shower, which was just too much effort for so early in the morning. He stuck a black woollen hat on to cover up his somewhat greasy, bed-head hair, and put on his black and silver studded belt around the slightly too low waistband of his shorts, taking a quick glance in the mirror to make sure he looked vaguely acceptable for the day at the studio.

The start of the day was always the worst, the mornings after he'd cut, the injury raw and painful, the skin bruised, his eyes sore from lack of sleep, and all the guilt and regret swilling round inside his stomach. He wanted to get back into bed, to wrap himself in the covers and sleep, sleep until he felt better, sleep until he felt ready to face the world. Nothing seemed right anymore, nothing was in order. A few months ago, when he was still at school, he could just skive off, skip his classes and have the day to wallow, but now he had a career, a life that he couldn't put on hold or take time out of. He could be on a path to greatness, to what he'd always wanted, and still it was both too much and not enough. Even if everything externally was fine, Dougie didn't know if it was possible for him to ever stop feeling like this, to ever stop feeling stuck inside his mind and its addictions. Sighing, Dougie made his way out of his room, staring at the floor as he went down stairs, hoping that the day would not be as bad as he feared it could.

* * *

><p><strong>Please review, and remember to give me any suggestions you may have! Hopefully I should be able to get another chapter up in a couple of days :D.<strong>

**Also, I feel like I should add, please, please don't do anything silly that you read about in this story. The point of the story is to raise awareness of the issue and, possibly, to deter anyone away from it. I sound like that voiceover before Channel 4 documentaries, but if you are affected by any of the issues raised in this story, feel free to send me a PM if you are so inclined! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! Here's chapter 3 :). Thank-you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, and thank-you to everyone who gave input as to how they thought this story should go! I really like writing this story, so I'm glad the response to it has been so positive! Please leave a review to let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestion etc feel free to leave them too!**

* * *

><p>"Dougie!" Jay, the producer, called into the glass recording booth in which Dougie was sat, "Dougie!"<p>

Dougie looked up, releasing the strings of his bass guitar that were pressed between his fingers, taking a break from playing the same four notes over and over, messing up consistently each time as he did. He couldn't focus, his mind was everywhere other than where it needed to be: in the studio with him. He sighed, putting the guitar down and rubbing his eyes. This was defiantly not the good impression he so wanted to make, this was not how he was going to prove himself as a decent musician. It was only his third ever time in a studio, but he'd played this song so many times before, in practices, and just around the house. What was wrong with him today? The bass line wasn't even particularly complex, his fingers were just refusing to do what his brain told them to do, it was like everything had just built up until he'd simply forgotten how to play.

"Sorry," Dougie mumbled, deflated.

"Why don't you take a break? We'll record the drums for now, and you can try again after?" Jay called back, looking exasperated from what Dougie could make out through the glass.

Dougie nodded, pushing himself up from the seat, and making his way out of the glass box, forcing a smile onto his face as he held the door open for Harry. Out of everything that being in a band entailed, studio recording was Dougie's least favourite, bar perhaps television interviews. Playing on his own, with all the focus being on him to not fuck up, was hardly an enjoyable experience when all he seemed to be able to do was fuck up. If it were a live show, it wouldn't be so noticeable if the notes of the bass line were slightly off, but here, it had to be perfect. Why was it so hard to focus? Why did he have to be so distracted when he was trying so hard to pretend everything was normal?

Dejected, Dougie pushed past Tom and Danny, who were sat watching the recordings, guitars in hand, practicing the songs that they knew back to front already, and left the studio room, in search of a coffee machine and a chance to clear his head. In his frustration at his current inability to get anything right, Dougie felt the familiar urges tingle in his arms, gripping him in their clutches. It was like a build up of tension and energy, which could only be released through splitting the skin. Maybe it would go away on its own, maybe he could just wait it out. Not that that usually worked, usually the urges would just get stronger, until it was borderline unbearable, and he could not take them any more. Maybe if he dealt with it, and got rid of the urges now, before they had the chance to get worse, he'd be able to focus.

It wasn't that he wanted to cut. He didn't, he didn't have any bandages with him for one, and it would be horrendously impractical to do so now. It was wrong as well, very rarely did Dougie cut during the day, unless something was particularly bad or the urges were particularly strong, it just wasn't part of his routine, he cut at night, it was how it had always been. The urges weren't even that bad, just nagging at him beneath his skin, but maybe if he could free up the part of his brain taken up by focusing on that, he would be able to get through the song without messing up notes. He walked down the hallway, staring at the floor, no really paying attention to where he was going. Maybe he'd made a mistake in thinking he'd be able to live this life, maybe he should just give up and go home, back to how his life used to be. But it would never be the same, it could never be the same, not after he'd had the chance to see how it could have gone. No, he would never forgive himself if he let this chance pass him by. He would just have to stick it out, to hope that things got better, to deal with it by any means necessary.

Stopping at the sight of the vending machines, Dougie fumbled in his pocket for some change to put into it, thinking perhaps taking the time to drink a cup of coffee might calm his urges a little. He pressed at the buttons until a small beige plastic cup filled with liquid of a similar colour appeared. He took it, the thin plastic of the cup doing little to contain the heat of its contents, scolding his hand slightly. Dougie gripped it tighter, trying to focus on the burning sensation in his hand, trying to channel his urges to cut himself into that so that he wouldn't have to resort to anything he'd regret in order to get rid of them_. _He lent against the wall of the corridor, and slid down it until he was sat crouched on the floor, trying to hide out until he could wrap his head around what he was going to do.

_Come on, Dougie,_ he thought, _this is ridiculous, it's the middle of the day, and Tom has just found out, obviously you can't cut now. Just get through the day, and then you can cut tonight if you have to, just not now, not here._ He tried to control his thoughts, to get his emotions into check, so that he could go back into the studio and record what he needed to record. Why was it so hard? He loved playing his bass, it usually calmed whatever stress he might be feeling, but now, in this overly pressurised environment, it was having the opposite effect. But he just needed to play, to forget about where his was or what was riding on him getting it right, he just had to do it, get it done, and focus on everything else afterwards.

But then, on the other hand, what harm could one tiny cut do, other than the obvious, of course? He could control himself, just do something small, just enough to satisfy the craving and be able to focus on anything else. He placed the cup of coffee on the floor beside him, and took out his mobile phone from his pocket. He slid off the back cover, revealing the battery, and a small blade, stashed away for emergencies where no one would think to look. Dougie pinched the blade between his fingers, pulling it away from its concealed hiding place, putting his phone on the floor next to the coffee. He stared at it, mesmerised by the sharp, shiny edge, reflecting the neon of the tungsten strip lights from the ceiling, making the light bounce round the hallway and into his eyes. He knew that he couldn't cut here, of course. He'd go into a bathroom cubicle, somewhere private, if he did, but even just holding the blade, knowing that the option was there if he needed it, was somewhat calming to Dougie.

"Dougie! There you are, dude," Tom called, running down the hallway, just about able to make out the form of Dougie's shorts and Vans trainers sticking out from behind the vending machine

Dougie jerked his head upwards, his eyes wide and startled like a dear caught in the headlights of a speeding car, his heart racing and pounding fast. He tried to hide the blade, but was too afraid to put it in his pocket, ironically, for fear of accidently hurting himself. Instead he closed his fist in around it, and tried to conceal the shock on his face. It was one thing Tom knowing that he cut, it was another entirely having Tom know he was considering doing it now. While cutting himself may have become completely normalised to Dougie, he feared how Tom may react, how it may affect him. He didn't want to make other people have to deal with his issues.

"Dougie? What's wrong?" Tom asked, approaching the crouched figure. He may not have known Dougie that long, but he had known him long enough to know when something was not right, and long enough to be able to see when he was hiding something.

"Err, nothing, nothing's wrong, just taking a break, can't seem to play right today, I dunno, must be the studio or something," Dougie rambled, nervously, hoping that Tom would leave it.

"What are you hiding there?" Tom asked, pointing at Dougie's clenched fist.

"What? Nothing," Dougie said quickly, his cheeks flushing red.

"Look, dude, it's obviously something, show me what it is, okay?" Tom said sternly, not wanting to come across too harsh, beginning to feel apprehension about what he might see.

Dougie sighed, realising that he wasn't going to be able to convince Tom that there really wasn't anything in his hand. He didn't have the energy to fight, or to argue, his simply uncurled his clenched fist, slowly, holding it out for Tom to see, averting his eyes to stare at the floor. He heard Tom gasp. Not a loud, overdramatic gasp, but more just an intake of breath taken slightly too fast. Tom crouched on the floor next to Dougie, not knowing what to do or what to say. He reached his hand over to Dougie's to pick the blade up out of the younger boy's hand.

"What are you doing?" Dougie asked, pulling his hand back and looking into Tom's eyes, seeing concern spread over his face.

"Dougie, I'm not just going to let you carry that around with you, give it to me." Tom said, flatly.

Dougie's eyes opened wider. Tom wanted him to give his emergency blade over? He wanted him to just hand over his safety net, his security blanket? He couldn't do that. He needed it, even if he didn't use it, he needed to keep it with him. How could Tom expect him to just hand it over? How could he explain to Tom that he needed to keep it with him? How could Tom possibly understand? Could he even try to explain to someone to whom this was such an alien concept, in a way that they could grasp?

"Can I… can I just keep it? I won't do anything, I just… I like knowing it's there," Dougie said, quietly, looking back down at the floor.

Tom sighed, sitting down next to Dougie, resting his head in his hands, "Why?" He asked.

"It's just… I don't know. I always have it on me. I don't… I wouldn't use it out, really, I don't know, I just like having it," Dougie attempted, not really knowing how to phrase it and make Tom both understand, and believe him.

"What if I hang on to it?" Tom bargained, softly, "I won't throw it away, I'll just keep it for you. That way you can still know it's there, and I can know that you're going to be safe, okay?"

Maybe that would work, thought Dougie. At the very least, it was the best option he currently had, Tom did not seem likely to back down, and, when Dougie really thought about it, understandably so. This may have been perfectly normal to Dougie, but of course it wasn't to Tom. For Tom to have offered to keep it, surely that must mean that he was at least trying to understand. Dougie knew that Tom wanted to help him, though he couldn't quite work out why. Tom was under no obligation to help him, no one else had done so before. Then again, Tom was the first person to know, maybe there would have been others had Dougie allowed there to be. Dougie wasn't even sure he wanted help, it was all so confusing. He knew that he had to stop cutting eventually, but every part of him screamed at himself to carry on, that there was no problem with it. But there was a problem with it, of course there was. He couldn't carry on like this forever. If he was ever going to stop, to really stop, it would involve taking steps, working. It wasn't just going to happen magically overnight

Nodding slowly, Dougie opened his clenched fist, extending his hand towards Tom, who reached over and took the small piece of sharpened metal before Dougie had a chance to change his mind. Carefully, Tom placed it into the pocket of his button-down shirt, hoping that 'out-of-sight, out-of-mind' could ring true. He looked over at Dougie, whose face was contorted, seemingly deep in thought, feeling his chest pang. Tom couldn't even begin to comprehend why Dougie would want to hurt himself, but he wanted to understand, to understand why Dougie felt he needed to do it, in order to help him stop. It was all very well taking a blade away, but Tom was fairly certain that this was not Dougie's only one. And surely, even if he took away all of Dougie's blades, Dougie could just find another way if he really wanted to. No, the problem was deeper than that, it went beyond physical solutions, as far as Tom could see.

"Thank-you," Dougie whispered, just about audible to Tom. Though Dougie had not wanted to surrender his blade, he knew it was a step in the right direction, and that had Tom not shown up at that moment, he would, almost certainly, have found himself in a bathroom cubical right now, with a blade pressed against his skin and blood dripping out. His urges were subsiding a little now, having been so overshadowed by the panic of his racing heartbeat when Tom had seen him. If he could get through the day without cutting, that would be an achievement, however small, a slight victory over himself. If he could do that, if he could beat the urges today, then maybe that meant he would be able to beat them more often. Maybe he really would be able to stop one day.

"No worries, dude," Tom smiled, glad that Dougie didn't seem to be holding any sort of a grudge, "Come on, let's go nail that bass line, yeah?"

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you all liked the chapter! Please remember to leave a quick review letting me know what you think, it means so much to me to get feedback on my stories! Hopefully I should be able to get the next chapter up soon, though I don't want to make any promises because I've been super busy lately. Next chapter should be up within the week though :). <strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello! I'm so sorry it's been so long again! I've had really terrible writer's block with my other story, Our Memories Blanket Us, and to try and fix it I told myself I wouldn't update this story until I got a chapter of that one up first, but I'm going away for a few days tomorrow, and it was proving too hard to finish the other chapter in time, and I wanted to put at least one update up for you guys before I went away! Thank-you as always to everyone reading and reviewing so far, it means so much to me! I really hope the chapter is okay, the writer's block is making it a little hard to tell, but please review to let me know what you think! **

* * *

><p>"Dougie?" Tom called, knocking gently on Dougie's door, "Dougs?"<p>

From inside his room, sitting on his bed, Dougie grumbled incoherently, just loud enough for Tom to hear. No that he really wanted Tom to hear, he hadn't really wanted to acknowledge Tom's knocking at all, fearing the inevitable conversation Tom had promised would occur, but eventually figured that acknowledging it may be the quickest way for it to go away.

Tom pushed Dougie's door open, and stuck his head inside, "You hungry, dude? Harry and Dan have gone down to the pub, so it's just us for dinner, told them we might join them later, if you like,"

Dougie shrugged in response. He was starving, but didn't know if he would be able to bring himself to eat anything. He hadn't eaten all day, his stomach too nervous to have room for food. Why did Tom have to patter around? Why couldn't they just get the horrendous conversation over and done with? Couldn't Tom just tell him what was going on, if they were kicking him out, if they were calling his mother, if they'd decided he really was too much hassle to keep around? If they'd decided he was more trouble than he was worth, as Dougie had always thought of himself.

"Alright, I'm going to order pizza," Tom continued, almost pretending as though Dougie had given him more of a response than had in fact been there, "You want the usual, right?"

Dougie sighed and nodded. It stood to reason that in a house full of teenage boys, all with distinctly limited cooking abilities, their diet consisted mostly of pizza, and beer (both consumed in such quantities that they could practically be considered food groups in their own right). While it was great to start with, real food was just another thing to add to the long list of things Dougie missed about home. He stared at the floor by Tom's feet, willing them to turn around and leave his room. He didn't want to talk, he wanted to be alone, to dwell on how much he'd fucked up and on how badly the day had gone. He'd messed the bass line of that song up so many times, even after he'd taken his enforced break. What if it kept happening? What if he could never play under pressure? There would be no way they'd let him stay in the band then.

Tom looked directly at Dougie, seeing his slight frame sitting crossed-legged in the middle of his bed, his head in his hands, blocking out the world. Tom hated to see Dougie like this, even more so now with the added fear of what Dougie might do to himself if left alone at the wrong time. Though he could tell Dougie probably didn't want the company, Tom stepped, uninvited, into Dougie's room, making his way over to the bed and sitting down on the edge, placing a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. Dougie looked up, his eyes rimmed red and puffy, opened wide in surprise. Sympathy was the last thing he had been expecting, thinking instead Tom would be getting fed up of trying to help someone who did not want to be helped.

"Look, Dougie, come on, this is silly," Tom began, his voice firm, trying to win control of a situation he knew he never could, "You need to tell me what's going on, okay? I deserve that at least. I just want to help you, Dougs, I want to understand what's happening, but you're making that really hard for me."

Seeing Tom's eyes pleading at him, Dougie thought for the first time that maybe Tom was right. Maybe he was being selfish, denying information to Tom, who hadn't gotten angry, who wanted to help. Maybe he should let Tom in, Dougie thought. After all, if Tom had already seen his arm, and had neither run a mile, nor gone to Dougie's mother, then maybe he could be trusted.

"Come on, Dougie, I'm doing the best I can here, but you need to explain this all to me," Tom coaxed.

"W-w-what do you want to know?" Dougie asked, his voice small and quiet, averting his eyes from Tom. He couldn't quite believe that this was happening, after so many years of it being his secret, he was finally going to share it with someone. Dougie had pictured this moment in his mind's eye before, trying to plan out how it would go, what he would say when someone finally found out, but he couldn't have prepared himself for how it felt when confronted with the reality. It was nerve-wracking, embarrassing in a way, to have his secret exposed, terrifying because he knew that once he started talking, everything would change.

Tom pondered Dougie's question. What did he want to know? He wanted to know everything, but he knew he couldn't dive in with that. Dougie looked petrified as it was, and Tom didn't want to make this any worse for him that it had to be. Maybe simple, specific questions would be the best place to start, just to get Dougie used to talking, used to the idea that someone actually wanted to know what was happening, Tom thought.

"Um, how long have you been, y'know, for?" Tom asked, not realising how awkward it would make him feel to actually say the name of the tabooed subject.

"I, um, I started cutting myself when I was thirteen, at school. I don't really know why, it just made sense at the time, y'know? I don't do it all the time, a stopped for a couple of months before I moved in here," Dougie said, his voice monotone, reciting from the caverns of his mind.

"Why did you start again?" Tom asked, feeling a stab of guilt. Had it been his fault that Dougie was doing this? Was it something to do with the band?

Dougie shrugged, "I dunno, really. It's kinda hard to explain. Like, you get urges after a while, I don't know how to describe them, but after a while they get too much, and I cut again just to make them go away."

"But can't you just, like, not cut yourself?" Tom asked, knowing in a way it was probably a stupid question.

"It's not that easy, though," Dougie said. He knew that this wouldn't work, how could he explain? There was no way to make Tom understand.

Tom nodded. Of course it wasn't that easy, if it was, there would be no reason for Dougie to still be cutting, really. "But, are things even that bad? What are we doing wrong, Dougs?" Tom asked, feeling tears of guilt begin to pick his eyes.

"It's just something I have to do," Dougie tried to explain, "I mean, it's a little more stressful being in the band, but it's not bad, no. I don't know, it doesn't make all that much sense to me, either, when I think about it," Dougie said, flashing a slight smile at Tom, trying to put himself at ease as much as Tom. He didn't want Tom to think there was something wrong with him, to think he was insane or fucked up or anything like that, because he wasn't. He was fine, most of the time, he just had to cut to keep himself that way.

"Are you trying to stop?" Tom asked, catching Dougie off guard.

Dougie knew what his answer should be. He should say yes, of course he was trying to stop. But he couldn't bring himself to lie outright to Tom, not when Tom was trying so hard to help. Instead Dougie shrugged again, "I don't know,"

"How do you not know? You either are, or you're not," Tom said, hoping he didn't sound anywhere near as infuriated by that answer as he felt.

"I just, I don't know. Of course I want to stop, but it's scary. I don't know how I'd stop, or what I'd do." Dougie said, thinking about it properly for the first time.

"Have you had anyone to talk to about it before? Has anyone else ever found out?" Tom asked, suspecting that he knew the answer.

Dougie shook his head, "No, never. Just you," He replied.

"Maybe I can help?" Tom said.

"How?"

Tom thought about it for a second, thinking back to the events in the studio, "I don't know, I could take all your blades away or something?"

Dougie shook his head, his face drained white in fear, "No, please not that. It wouldn't work anyway, I cut myself pretty bad with a paperclip once because it was the only thing I had. Blades just make it easier,"

Tom nodded, "Okay, well, what if you just come talk to me when you get, what did you call them? Those urges,"

"They're usually at like 3am though, I would want to bother you," Dougie warned, thankful beyond words that this was the approach Tom was taking.

"I don't mind. I'd rather you come wake me up than you cut yourself, okay? Seriously, any time, day or night, come get me and I'll try to help. I want to be there for you, Dougie, but you have to let me, okay?" Tom said, his voice soft and conclusive, his mind made up.

Dougie nodded, his fears from earlier slowly slipping away. Maybe things could start to get better. Maybe all he needed to stop was the support of someone else. Dougie didn't know if he would ever be able to explain things fully to Tom, but he could try. After all, Tom was making such an effort to help, and to understand, the very least that Dougie owed him was a proper explanation.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you all liked the chapter, don't forget to leave me a review letting me know what you think! I promise I won't leave it quite so long before my next update!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! It's been ages since I updated anything again, hasn't it? I'm sorry it's taken me so long, I really have no excuse other than being busy with uni work. Thank-you as always to everyone who's reviewed this story, and to everyone adding it to their favourite/alerts lists! It really means the world to me to know what you all think of the story, so please do leave a review and let me know! Anyway, I hope you like the chapter, hopefully I will be less of a fail and update this again within the next week or so :D. **

* * *

><p>For what felt like the thousandth time, Dougie found himself alone, at 3:47am, being gripped in the midst of familiar, unyielding urges. He sat upright in bed, giving up on his attempts at sleep, hands balled into fists, digging his nails into his palms in an attempt to curb what he knew he could not. It had been a couple of days since Dougie had spoken to Tom, since Tom had made Dougie promise he would come and talk to him next time, rather than cutting. Dougie had already broken his promise, however, with seven small cuts that now lined his leg, just above his right knee, from the urges he had struggled with the previous night. Dougie hadn't meant to. He wanted to be truthful in his promise to Tom, to show Tom that he appreciated the help he knew Tom was trying his best to provide, and yet, he still could not bring himself to go and knock on the older boy's bedroom door, too concerned with the concept of being a burden, instead just wanting to push everything aside and deal with it himself, like he always had done before.<p>

Once again, the day had not gone well, another day filled with stress and anxiety, questioning his life, his place in the band, his place in this emerging group of friends of which he clung to the outskirts. Dougie heard his stomach growl; he hadn't eaten since that morning, his stomach swirling, filled up with thoughts and emotions. His head was pounding, a headache brought on by tensions of the mind, no doubt. He reached a shaking hand over to pick up the glass of water that was resting on his bedside cabinet, taking a tentative sip before placing the glass back down.

How was his room so hot? It was February, not exactly the middle of winter, but nowhere near summertime yet for London. He unzipped his hoodie and took it off, throwing it onto the floor, before laying down flat on his back on top of the covers of his still-made bed, his scarred and scratched arms stretched out to either side. It sickened him, sometimes, when he caught sight of his arms, a strange mix of pride and guilt, which only served to make him feel worse. Why should he feel proud? What did it prove? How strong he was? How bad an injury he could cause himself? It didn't prove anything, not really, but still the pride was there, as his eyes gazed over to the newest, and deepest, of his arm's current wounds, still raw and barely scabbed over, the skin surrounding it still tinged with purple bruising. He clenched his fists once again, trying to stave off the urges just a little while longer. Why was he even bothering? What was one more scar to add to the collection?

Dougie sighed, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't be doing this, not any more. It wasn't the same now, not now Tom knew. He'd be able to tell Dougie had cut come morning time, Dougie was sure of it. He couldn't do that to Tom, this wasn't meant to affect other people, not like that. It was too much, everything was too much. Things should be going so well, Dougie thought, and yet instead he found himself feeling as though he was watching everything around him crumble to dust. If he couldn't get a grasp on his head, how was anything else going to work out? He felt his thoughts build up in layers, new ones knocking the previous ones down, building up a tower from the rubble. They had to stop. He had to make them stop, there was no way he could take this feeling for much longer.

"For fuck's sake," Dougie cursed, barely louder than a whisper, trying to talk himself down, "Pull yourself the fuck together,"

He felt like screaming, crying, anything that would turn this pent up aggravation into something external, anything just to get it out. Sighing, Dougie pushed himself up from the bed, shaking with adrenalin and nerves. He was going to do it, he was going to try talking to Tom. What was the worst thing that could happen? That it wouldn't work? That he'd still end up cutting tonight regardless? Surely it was at least worth a try first. Maybe if he tried, really tried, not to cut, then maybe he wouldn't feel quite as guilty if and when he gave in. He reached over for his hoodie and slipped it back on over his arms, and pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms over his boxer shorts. It might have been hot, but it would be better than risking Tom seeing anything again, for the sake of Tom's wellbeing, almost as much as to shield his own embarrassment.

Dougie made his way from his room to the hallway, using the light from his phone as a torch to guide himself so that he did not have to turn any lights on, not wanting to disturb any more of his bandmates' sleep than he had to. Slowly, with a fair amount of hesitation in each step took, Dougie made his way up the short staircase to the third floor of the house, where Tom's bedroom lay. He stood for a moment in the darkness outside Tom's room, noticing his hands trembling with fear. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? All that was going to happed would be for Tom to become worried about him, and he didn't want that. But then again, maybe that was what he needed, the help of someone to take some of the weight from his shoulders, to lessen the burden from his heavy heart and tightening chest.

His courage built up slightly, Dougie inhaled deeply and tapped on the door. It was now or never. He had started now, what was done could not be undone, not now that the first steps had been taken. He stood, waiting, listening to the door, hoping for some inclination that it was okay for him to enter. None came, no sound, nothing. Of course he wouldn't get a reply, Tom was more than likely deep into a REM sleep cycle, and Dougie's feebly faint tapping would not be enough to wake him. Maybe he should just give up, go back downstairs, ward off the urge on his own for as long as he could, however pathetically short an amount of time that was bound to be. No, Tom had said to come and talk to him, that he wouldn't mind, that he wanted Dougie to come to him. Tom didn't say things that he didn't mean.

With his hand trembling more than ever, Dougie twisted the doorknob and creaked the door open, just enough for him to slip inside the room and shut the door behind him, still concerned with waking up Harry and Danny. He knew he wasn't really being loud, but in the dark quietness of the night, every tiny sound he made amplified and reverberated through his ears.

"Tom?" Dougie called out into the room, his voice just about straining out of a whisper, "Tom, can I… Can I talk to you please?"

From within his bed, Tom's body stirred, stretching his arms out before rubbing his hands to his bleary eyes. He sat up a little, the duvet pulled up against his bare chest, tucked under his arms, as he rolled over to his bedside cabinet, picking up and putting on his glasses and flicking the switch to turn on his bedside lamp.

"Dougie?" Tom said, his voice groggy, as the frail figure of his shaking bandmate snapped into focus, "What's up, dude?"

"I… uh… I wasn't feeling to good, and, uh, you said to come talk to you, and… Yeah," Dougie rambled, his eyes darting around the room to avoid eye contact with Tom as he fidgeted nervously with the loose threads at the cuff of his hoodie, "Sorry, sorry… I don't know what I'm doing, this is stupid. I'll let you get back to sleep, sorry," He continued, turning to leave the room, cursing himself internally for his failure to follow anything through.

"No, Dougs, wait," Tom called out after Dougie, pushing himself up from the bed, "Dougie, stop it, come here,"

Dougie halted, and spun back around to face Tom, hearing the mix of urgency and compassion with which his bandmate's words were formed.

"Sorry, I'm really sorry," Dougie mumbled, looking Tom in the eye for the first time that night.

"Don't be silly, dude. I told you to come talk to me when you needed to, and I meant it, okay?" Tom replied, "Come on, come here," He continued, gesturing to the bed on which he was sat. He could see Dougie was clearly scared, and, truth be told, Tom's own apprehension nearly matched that of Dougie's. As much as Tom wanted to help, as much as he wanted to be able to be of some use, he didn't really know how he could. What if he made things worse? No, he couldn't make things worse, surely. He at least had to pretend he knew what to do, pretend he had everything figured out and under control. He had to be able to be there for Dougie.

Dougie made his way over to Tom's bed, perching on the edge of the navy blue bedsheet-covered mattress, pushing away the edge of the blue and white striped duvet, part of which still encased Tom's legs. He stared at his bare feet against the beige carpeted floor, his toes curling inward, as he picked at the skin around his nails, unsure of what to do now. He was here, he had done it, he was in Tom's room, prepared to talk, doing everything he could to keep himself from running back downstairs and grabbing a blade.

"Uh… what now?" Dougie mumbled, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.

"Um, do you, um," Tom paused. This was no good, he was meant to act like he knew what to do. He exhaled deeply before staring again, "Do you want to talk about it?" He concluded, his voice sounding more certain than he felt, trying to offer some sense of security to Dougie.

"I dunno… there's not much to say, really. I want to cut, and I'm trying not to, but I don't know what to do any more. I don't know, it must sound so stupid, I guess, but it's like, I _have_ to. I have to cut, I don't have a choice, 'cause if I don't cut, then it'll never stop," He paused, thinking, before turning to face Tom, "I can't believe I'm saying this. Everything's so fucked. I'm such an idiot."

"No, you're not. And nothing's fucked, everything can get sorted out. You're just going through a tough time. It's stressful, I know it is, but you just need to find a better way to deal with it all," Tom said calmly, hoping to get though to Dougie, his soothing tone lingering in the silence of the air as he sat, patiently, waiting for a reply.

Dougie nodded, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, looking close to tears, "I know, I know… it's just… ugh… I don't know," He struggled, failing to allow his words to form fully into an order that made any kind of sense before speaking. He clamped his eyes shut, his nails digging grooves into the side of his nose, as he willed the tears forming in his eyes not to fall. He wouldn't cry, he couldn't, not in front of Tom, not after everything else.

"Do you want to maybe, um, put a movie on, or something?" Tom asked, running out of knowing what he could say to make Dougie feel any better, "Try and take your mind off things a bit?" It physically pained him to see Dougie in such bad shape, so fragile. How could someone find it so hard to just make it through the night?

Dougie shrugged, still focusing on not crying, "Sure, I guess," He mumbled.

Tom leaned forward to the foot of the bed, reaching over to the small, black box of a TV, and picking up the first DVD from the pile next to it. It didn't really matter what they put on, Tom supposed, anything to distract Dougie for long enough that he could forget how he felt, and maybe even manage to sleep for a little. From the dark circles under Dougie's eyes, Tom guessed sleep had been eluding him that night. He glanced at the DVD briefly before sliding it into the player. It was Star Wars, not to his surprise. They both may have seen it hundreds of times before, but a couple of hours on board the Millennium Falcon were a couple of hours well spent, in Tom's mind.

"Here," Tom said, sliding over against the wall on the far side of the bed, "Sit round here so you can see, if you want."

Dougie nodded and swung his legs round onto the bed, resting his back against the mound of pillows propped up against the headboard. Somehow, the change of scenery from his room into Tom's seemed to cull his urges somewhat, feeling calmer than he had managed to in a long time. Maybe it was the relief of finally having someone, even if he wasn't quite ready to pour out his heart and soul, maybe it was just having someone who was willing to listen, who was willing to spend a little time with him when he needed it.

"Thanks," Dougie said, quietly, as the opening credits of the movie rolled onto screen in front of them.

Tom smiled slightly, "No problem, dude. Like I said, anytime."

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, please remember to leave a review, as always any commentssuggestions/etc you have are more than welcome, and I will try and get another chapter of this up ASAP!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello! Sorry it's been so long since my last update again, I've been really busy with uni projects and the like, but I'm done with the year now so I should be back to at least semi-regular updates! Thank-you to everyone who's been reading/reviewing/favouriting/subscribing to this story, and I'm sorry I've kept you all waiting so long! Please leave me a review to let me know what you think of this chapter. I think I've noticed this story becoming a little repetitive, so please do let me know if you think it is too. I've got some actual plot lined up for the next chapter, so hopefully it'll get a little more interesting soon! **

* * *

><p>Tom awoke to the faint blue glow of the stand-by screen of the TV hitting his eyes, with the acute awareness of another body, still sleeping, next to his. He rolled over from the wall which he was faced to see Dougie, one leg hanging out of the bed, sprawled over on his side, eyes shut, looking more peaceful, and more at ease with the world, than Tom had ever seen him do so before. Sitting up in bed, Tom peered over Dougie's shoulder to see the neon green numbers of his alarm clock, seeing it to be 9:30am, fifteen minutes before his alarm was due to go off. Careful not to disturb Dougie, Tom clambered over the sleeping body and out of the bed, before turning off the TV screen, and switching the alarm off pre-emptively. Dougie could probably use the extra sleep, Tom thought, judging by the state he had gotten himself into during the night.<p>

With the amber morning light shining into the room through the corners of the blinds, drawn shut over the windows, Tom rooted around on the floor in search of his bathrobe, tugging at the sleeve of the navy, tartan-patterned fabric through a pile of clothes next to his wardrobe. He slid the bathrobe on over the boxer shorts he had slept in, before glancing back over at the bed to make sure he had not woken Dougie, relieved to see him still firmly within his slumber. Without really thinking about what he was doing, Tom made his way over to Dougie, and pulled the corner of the blanket, crumpled by the foot of the bed, up over the sleeping figure. Satisfied that he had not woken him, Tom left the bedroom to go make some coffee, leaving Dougie to rest a little longer before he had to face the day.

It all seemed so hard for him, Tom thought. Maybe it wasn't fair to expect someone Dougie's age to have been able to handle what they were asking Dougie to handle, maybe it wasn't fair to put that sort of pressure on to someone so young. But Dougie had talent, real talent, and for Tom, that couldn't go unnoticed. It had to be nurtured, nourished, helped to grow and used to help that of others' grow. Regardless of his talent, though, Dougie was still just a kid, Tom reminded himself, a somewhat depressed and highly anxious kid. He needed a chance to let go, to forget, to clear his head and get to really _be_, without any of the stress or the pressure, without record labels or studios, and without his mental health getting in the way.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Tom turned on the lights, and set about boiling the kettle. As usual, he was the first one awake – he always set his alarm to go off fifteen minutes before they all needed to be up if they had something they needed to be doing or somewhere they needed to go, just to make sure that everyone else way up and ready in time. Today they had a meeting with their record label, finalizing things for the album before it was released next month, before they had to be back in the studio recording. As he put some bread into the toaster, Tom glanced at the clock on the wall, concluding that he could let Dougie sleep in for a little while longer before he had to wake him.

Upstairs, Dougie stirred, still half asleep, his eyes opening slightly as he came to the realisation that the bed that he was lying in was not his. His eyes shot open, startled, before remembering the events of the night before and catching his breath, relaxing back down into Tom's mattress. He rolled over to face the wall, seeing that he was alone. Glancing over at the glowing alarm clock, Dougie sighed, seeing that he would have to get up soon. He lay his head back down into the pillow, hoping he'd be able to catch a little bit more sleep while he still could. Something about Tom's room made him feel calm to the point that sleep seemed more like a reality than some distant hope like it usually did. It was different, everything was different. The sheets were softer, more worn-out than his own were, the duvet was thinner, and the pillows were a little too firm, but it was good, it was comforting to be somewhere different, to feel the presence of another person, to be in someone else's room, to know that he was not completely alone. Curled round on his side, Dougie clutched onto the corner of the duvet as he cocooned himself around in the sheets, the scent of cotton and fabric softener filling his nose. He shut his eyes once again, willing time to slow down before he had to wake up.

As he tried to settle back to sleep, a sudden fear gripped his body. What if Tom was angry with him for last night? Surely he must have annoyed him, waking him up at 3am with his whiney, pathetic rubbish, Dougie thought. Maybe that was why Tom was up already, maybe he'd gone to talk to Harry and Danny about kicking Dougie out of the band, or at the very least out of the house. Who could blame him, really? The other three didn't need this, they had their futures to think of, not to mention their present; they didn't need the added burden of one of their bandmates being seemingly intent on self-destruction. Dougie sighed, pushing himself up out of the comfort of Tom's bed sheets.

"Doug?" Tom's voice came through the door, startling Dougie slightly, who turned around to face the door, wide eyed, "Oh, you're up. Here, brought you some coffee, and some breakfast," Tom smiled, setting down the mug and the plate of toast he'd been carrying.

Dougie stared at the plate, and back up to Tom, his eyes darting between them, trying to piece them together with the fears that had been so certain in his mind. He felt tears pricking at his eyes. This was stupid, was he really about to start crying because someone brought him some toast?

"What's wrong?" Tom asked, seeing the pained look on Dougie's face.

"I… um… You should be angry at me. I-I-I thought you were going to ask me to leave, after last night and all, a-a-a-and –"

"You thought what?" Tom cut Dougie off, shocked at the suggestion, perching down next to Dougie, looking to him for an answer.

"I, um, I thought you were going to kick me out, like, of the house, and the band… for being too much hassle. I'm sorry, Tom, I shouldn't have woken you up last night," Dougie said, staring at the floor.

"Dougie, we've been through this. You're not hassle, at all, you just need a little help, and I'm here to help you, okay?" Tom said, putting a hand on the younger boy's shoulder.

Dougie nodded, and, despite his best efforts, felt himself begin to cry, "Sorry… I guess I'm just not used to people actually caring about things, you know?"

"Yeah, I know, but you'll get used to it soon enough, dude," Tom smiled.

"Thanks," Dougie said, wiping his eyes.

"That's okay," Top replied, "Come on, eat,"

Dougie stared at the plate of toast, his stomach swirling instantly at the thought of eating, "I'm not really hungry," He mumbled, picking up his coffee.

"You're never hungry. You have to eat something though," Tom said, realising quite how much he sounded like Dougie's mother.

Dougie sighed, picking up a triangle of peanut butter covered toast and taking a small bite out of the corner, chewing it round and round in his mouth into a pulp before forcing himself to swallow it past the lump of anxiety lodged in his throat.

"There," He said, putting the rest of the piece down.

"It's a start, I guess," Tom sighed, "But Doug, what about when I go away with Dan next week? Are you going to look after yourself then, or do I have to phone to make sure you're eating? I think… I think you need to tell Harry what's going on, with the… you know."

Dougie stared at Tom, terrified, "You said I didn't have to tell them! You said you wouldn't tell them!" Dougie shouted, standing up from the bed.

"Doug, calm down," Tom said, standing up and grabbing onto Dougie's arm, "I didn't say that I was going to tell them. I just said it might be a good idea. I can't make you tell anyone, but I'd be much happier going away knowing you had someone to talk to on the same time zone if you needed it. I mean, of course you can call me when I'm away, but I'll be in America, that's a six hour time difference, and Dan and I are out there working with the new producer, so I might not be there when you need me. Please, Doug, just think about it, okay?"

Dougie found himself nodding, though he was unconvinced. Truth be told, he didn't know what to think, or how to feel about Tom's suggestion. He didn't really trust his own thoughts anymore, considering just twenty minutes ago he had been mentally preparing himself for Tom to tell him he had to leave the band and go back home. Just twenty minutes ago, he was convinced that the one person who was trying more than anyone else to help him actually hated him. Maybe if Tom thought telling someone else would be for the best, then it would be. Maybe Harry knowing wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, especially when Tom was off in America next week. Maybe the benefit having someone around to talk to on nights like last night would outweigh the terror of having to share his secret with yet another person.

"Tom?" Dougie asked, his voice small as he looked over into Tom's eyes.

"Yeah, mate?"

"What if Harry hates me… like, when he finds out. How do you know he even wants to help me?"

"Come on, don't be silly. Oh course he won't hate you. Does Harry hate anyone? No. Why would he start with you?"

Dougie wondered if the question was rhetorical, or if he should start vocalising the list of reasons for Harry to hate him he was currently composing in his head. Tom seemed to see this in Dougie's eyes.

"Come on, stop it," Tom said, smiling slightly and patting Dougie on the shoulder, "Harry will be fine. I'll come with you when you tell him, if you want?"

Dougie again found himself nodding, even smiling a little, as he warmed to the idea of trusting Tom's judgement, "Thanks," He said, before picking up a slice of toast and attempting another bite.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you all liked the chapter :D, don't forget to leave a review to let me know what you think! And sorry again that I've been gone so long. If it takes me more than like 2 weeks to update again, you have my permission to shout at me until I do :P.<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello! After not writing anything for a while, I'm back to pretty regular updates with my other fic (Our Memories Blanket Us), and I'm going to try to update this one about once a week or so for the time being too. Thank-you as always to everyone to read/reviewed the last chapter, I hope you all like this one, please leave me a review to let me know :D.**

* * *

><p>The four boys sat in the living room of their house after a long day in the studio, the floor littered with empty pizza boxes and Corona bottles, a half drunk bottle of Jack Daniels, and another case of beer waiting to be opened. It was the night, or rather, the early morning, before Tom and Danny were set to leave for America, and Tom had gone along with Danny's perhaps somewhat misguided decision that it would be easier to stay up all night drinking than have to wake themselves up at 4am to get to the airport in time for their 8am flight. Tom had to admit, it had certainly been more fun this way, though, at 3am, he was beginning to get a little tired, and was almost looking forward to the taxi ride and eight hour plane journey to sleep of his inevitable hangover on.<p>

Dougie had still yet to tell Harry about his self-harm as Tom had pleaded with him to do, saying instead that he would tell him if and when he needed to. Dougie thought that if he didn't give himself the option of having someone to talk to, someone else to burden, perhaps he'd be able to snap himself out of it on his own, knowing full well that it was never that simple, however straightforward it seemed in his head. He had promised Tom that if things got bad, he would tell Harry, but only if he had no other option; the less people who knew about his little secret, the better, Dougie thought. And yet, at the same time as all this logic and reason for why he wasn't telling Harry, Dougie knew that there was one real reason that stood head and shoulders above the others: It was simply easier to pretend there was nothing to tell. It was easier to ignore the problem than to face it head on. Dougie knew this wasn't healthy, he knew this wasn't how things should be done, but right now at least, it was the only path that made sense to him.

"Cheers!" Harry said, lifting his shot glass full of whiskey. Dougie looked down to see that his glass too had been refilled. He smiled, lifting it and clinking glasses with Harry, Tom and Danny, before gulping the liquid down, shuddering slightly as it burned his throat, and fell like a lump of lead into his stomach.

"Man, I'm so excited for America!" Danny said, jumping in his seat slightly while swigging his Corona, sounding a bit like a child waiting to go to Disneyland.

"Mate, that's not fair! Some of us have to stay here," Harry replied, with mock indignation.

"This trip's been booked before we even knew you guys," Tom laughed, "Next time we'll all go, okay?"

"I'll drink to that!" Harry laughed, pouring out more whiskey shots for everyone.

Dougie drank down his shot once again, knocking his head back as the others did. As he put his glass back down, he paused, the world spinning before his eyes, his stomach swirling full of alcohol and pizza. He'd been drunk before, or at least a little buzzed, with his friends back home, but never to the point of feeling a little sick, as he did tonight. He shrugged, picking his beer up, deciding that it must be his general anxiety being heightened by the fact that he was being left alone with Harry for the week that was making his stomach twist. Not that there was anything wrong with Harry; they got on fine, Harry was charismatic and charming and always had something to say, which Dougie liked as it meant he could slip into the background and listen. But that was the difference between group interactions, and one on one. In a group, he could fade away into himself, but one on one, for that he needed to participate, not just observe. He closed his eyes for a second and breathed deeply, trying to settle his stomach as it lurched.

"Dougie? Are you alright?" Tom asked, seeing Dougie look a little pale.

"Wha?" Dougie slurred, looking up, "Yeah, I'm a'right… the room's a bit spin-y is all,"

Danny laughed, "Mate, he's proper wasted,"

"No, I'm-nam-a'right," Dougie insisted, the words getting mumbled in his mouth, having trouble focusing his eyes. Maybe he had drunk a little too much, no more than anyone else, mind, but perhaps he was just less used to drinking. He'd just wanted to not be nervous for once, to have a little fun. And it had been fun. He managed to drink, and chat, and even laugh with the guys for a few hours, but now, all he felt was dizzy, a little nauseous, and a bit sleepy.

Actually, make that more than a little nauseous.

Dougie pushed himself up, his hand covering his mouth, as he ran out the room, trying to navigate his was through the spinning house to the bathroom. He ran into a wall or two as he went, not really noticing what he was doing, too focused on getting to the bathroom before he threw up all the beer and whiskey being gurgled up by his gut. He pushed open the bathroom door and ran in, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, coughing and spluttering out the contents of his stomach.

Dougie became vaguely aware of the feeling of a hand rubbing his back, looking up when he was certain he was done throwing up, seeing Tom standing behind him, holding out a glass of water. Dougie took the water and gulped down half the glass, trying to clear the taste of puke and whiskey from his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Dougie slurred, swilling water through his mouth before spitting it into the toilet bowl, retching slightly again.

"Don't be, you just drank too much, happens to everyone at some point," Tom replied, patting Dougie's back as he spluttered and began to throw up again.

"No, but I fucked up again, I always fuck everything up," Dougie mumbled, drinking down the rest of the glass of water, "You guys shouldn't have to put up with me fucking up all the time. I don't want to _be_ anymore. I'm done. You'd all be happier without me anyway. Everyone would be happier if I just stopped _being_."

"You know that isn't true, Dougie, this is just the alcohol talking," Tom said, holding his hand out to help Dougie up.

"No, it is true," Dougie continued, taking Tom's hand and swaying to his feet, "Why am I even alive? I don't want to be."

Tom sighed, torn as to whether in this case alcohol was acting as a truth serum, an insight into the real depths and darkness of Dougie's mind, or as a cloud, drawing out false depressions from far forgotten corners. In the hallway of the bathroom, Danny and Harry exchanged a worried glance, both of them unfamiliar with this seemingly new side of Dougie.

"Come on, Dougs," Harry said, stepping forwards, "Things can't be that bad, can they?"

"But they are," Dougie said, spinning round to look at Harry, stumbling a little as he lost his balance in the process, "They always are. Nothing ever changes and everything's always shit," He muttered rubbing his eyes, trying to stay standing.

"Come on, let's get you to bed, okay?" Tom said, putting his arm around Dougie's shoulders to support him.

"Take him into my room," Harry said, putting his arm around Dougie's other side to help, "It's closer, and you guys have your flight to catch soon. He really shouldn't be left alone like this."

"Yeah, good idea," Tom said, moving Dougie slowly forwards, "Dan, can you go grab him another glass of water?"

Danny nodded as he turned out the doorway, running down to the kitchen. Tom and Harry led Dougie into Harry's bedroom, gradually edging him forwards. Once inside, Dougie flopped down onto the unmade bed, eyes shut, murmuring slightly, halfway between awake and asleep. His eyes were drifting between open and closed, and Dougie couldn't really see or make sense of anything. All he could think about were his dizzy head and swirling stomach, mixed with guilt and depression.

"Harry?" Dougie mumbled.

"Yeah, mate?" Harry asked, perching down next to Dougie on the bed.

"I, uh, I have to tell you something. Tom said I should tell you. And I trust you, I think I trust you to tell you," Dougie rambled, knowing that the words were only coming to him so easily due to his current state of intoxication.

"Dougie, you don't have to do this now," Tom warned, hoping Dougie wasn't about to say anything he'd regret in the morning, knowing that this was not the right time for Dougie to tell Harry about everything that had been going on.

"No, I do, I –"

"Here you go mate," Danny interrupted, setting a glass of water down on the bedside cabinet and handing Dougie a slice of bread, "You should try and eat some of that, mate, soaks up the alcohol from your stomach or something,"

Dougie pushed himself up a little, taking the slice of bread from Danny's hand, ripping a corner off and forcing it into his mouth, trying his best to chew and swallow it. He threw the rest of the slice down on the bed, before falling backwards to lie down once again.

Tom's phone beeped and he looked down at it, seeing a text from the taxi company telling him the cab to the airport was outside, "Shit, I'm really sorry to have to do this, mate, but Dan and I have to go," Tom said to Harry, concerned for Dougie, not wanting to leave despite seeing the time on the Harry's alarm clock and knowing he had to, "You can handle him, right?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry replied, patting his hand on Dougie's shoulder as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He paused, turning to face Tom, lowering his voice, "What was it Dougie wanted to tell me before, Tom?" He asked, softly, trying not to let Dougie hear.

"That's really for Dougie to tell you, dude. He will, though, I promise. Just… make sure you look after him alright when we're gone, yeah? He gets into a weird head-space sometimes, just look out for it."

Harry nodded, accepting, "Okay, don't worry, I will. He'll be fine; I've got everything under control here. You go, have fun. I can handle looking after Dougie."

"Alright, mate," Tom smiled, though wishing he could be more convinced than he was, "I'll let you know when we get to the airport and that. Call us if you need any help with him or anything, though."

"I will. Now go! You'll miss you're flight if you hang around too long!" Harry laughed, as Tom and Danny ran out of the room to grab their suitcases to go to the airport.

Harry looked over to Dougie, curled up on his side, lying passed out on the bed. Harry sighed, pulling out the blanket from underneath Dougie, and covering it over him. He lay down beside him, realising how tired he was, his mind racing with thought of what it was Dougie had meant to tell him earlier. Harry thought back through the night, to what Dougie had said in the bathroom, to how depressed he sounded. It had scared Harry to hear someone so young talk like that, and though he hoped it was just drunken ramblings, Harry knew from experience that people rarely said anything like that when they were drunk unless there was at least some element of truth to it sober. Knowing that he wasn't going to find anything out at least until Dougie was awake, Harry gave into his tiredness, closing his eyes to rest them, not wanting to go to sleep fully in case Dougie needed anything. He would ask him about it in the morning, and hope that Dougie would be able to share with him while sober whatever it was he had wanted to share tonight, without Dutch courage and cushion of a drunken stupor to fall back on if it all went wrong. But he could hope. He could hope Dougie had meant it when he said he trusted him. He could hope that everything Dougie had said was just massively exaggerated through a magnifying glass of beer and whiskey, and, more than anything, he could hope that he really could handle everything as well as he said he could do while Tom and Danny were away.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you all liked the chapter, please remember to leave me a review to let me know! Also, just as a quick note, I know Dougie is only 15 here, but people drink underage all the time, so I hope everyone's alright with that! Anyway, yeah, hope you liked it! Next chapter should be up in a week or so :D.<strong>


End file.
